


Leave Your Shaded Hollow

by blujamas



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, F/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, the knight/princess AU that was inevitable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-24 11:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blujamas/pseuds/blujamas
Summary: Wherein Clarke is the heir apparent of a golden empire, and Bellamy is her dark-eyed knight. They've known each other all their lives. They plan to know each other at the end of the world.But fate has an agenda, and it must be kept. //A series chronicling the life and love of Princess Clarke Griffin of the Arkadian Empire and her stalwart knight, Bellamy Blake, as inspired by the Oh Hellos' album, Dear Wormwood.





	1. prelude

They have known each other all their lives.

He was only nine when the captain of the guard caught him trying to slip through the crack in the wall by the palace gardens. After a stern talking to, Captain Marcus Kane surprised everyone by announcing the boy as the newest addition to the royal guard. The princess would ask him about it, years later. Captain Kane was not one to trust so easily, especially when it concerned the welfare of his liege. _“Why him?” _she asked, fretful and confused, voicing the question that had plagued her for years.

And Captain Kane would smile, pat her golden head, and say, _“You already know the answer.”_

But at age eight, Princess Clarke Griffin, Heir Apparent of the Arkadia Empire, first daughter of the late King Jacob Griffin and the widowed Queen Abigail Griffin, was not concerned about questions and answers. She was just a girl, sitting on the throne her father had left her, looking down the glittering dais as the captain presented the strange boy to the court. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother’s jaw tighten.

“He is but a child, Marcus,” the queen chided. The assembled court murmured their assent.

But Captain Kane was unfazed. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, meeting the queen’s eyes evenly. “And so was I, when I first began my training. In any case, he will not officially be a guard until he comes of age. For now, we offer him a home and proper education, so he might serve his country when he is older. It’s what he wants.”

“And what do your parents want?” Queen Abigail asked gently, addressing the boy.

The boy straightened. The sunlight streaming from the windows turned him into a pillar of gold. In her memory, Clarke would always remember him that way: shining, golden, more noble than the nobility gathered around him. Her hands itched for her sketchbook – she was a talented artist, even then – but found she could not look away from the boy before her. She let herself memorize the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks like powdered sugar, his dark curls and dark eyes.

“I have none, Your Majesty,” he said. “It’s only me, and my sister. We live in Lower Arkadia.”

This elicited a grumble from the court. Lower Arkadia was known to be the breeding ground of thieves and criminals. It was Queen Abigail’s biggest regret; try as she might during her reign, she could not stamp out the poverty that plagued the shantytown. But the boy seemed to carry the name with pride. He did not flinch as one of the governors pointed a disapproving finger at Captain Kane and accused, “You would bring a petty criminal into our queen’s court, Captain? How dare you—”

The queen held up a gloved hand. The court silenced immediately. “Your sister. How old is she?”

“She is but four. That was why I was trying to – to break into the palace,” – and here, he _did_ flinch, but Clarke didn’t know if it was shame from admitting to his crime or shame for being caught – “because I merely wanted to… to _borrow_ some milk for her. She is so small, and her health is failing.”

Clarke could hear her mother’s breathing hitch. When she spoke again, her words her muddled with pity. “No child should ever have to starve. Very well, Captain, you’ve made your case.” She rose amid the new bout of disagreement from the court. “This court has failed you and your family, boy. It is time we do something right by you, for once. Your training will begin immediately. Captain, you will see to _both_ the siblings being housed and taken care of. They will be under your direct care. Is that understood?”

The captain bowed his head, but Clarke could tell he was smiling. “Of course, my queen.”

He began leading the boy out of the hall. Some members of the court swarmed her mother, asking if she was serious, begging her to reconsider allowing such a dirty child into her home. Clarke could sense her mother’s irritation, hidden under her carefully crafted façade. But it wasn’t her mother’s discomfort that made Clarke uneasy. As the captain and the boy turned towards the doors, Clarke could see how thin the boy was through the frayed, mud-streaked back of his tunic.

“Wait!” she called after them, standing from her throne. “Wait, please, Captain.”

The captain and the boy turned. The boy met her eyes for the first time. In the soft rays of the sun, she swore his gaze almost burned through her.

“What is your name?” she asked, holding his stare and trying to find the right colors for his face.

“Bellamy,” he replied. “Bellamy Blake.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bellamy Blake.”

The boy bowed. “Likewise, Your Highness.”

They were not meant to be raised together, but nonetheless it was what happened. It was clear that though Bellamy didn’t receive any formal education in Lower Arkadia, he was still way above his peers in both his academics and his weapons training. In the early days, while Clarke had her tutors in the library, Bellamy would train with other guards-in-training in the sparring field below. When no other initiate his age could match him in archery, or swordsmanship, or tree-climbing, or anything at all, the captain had older guards come in. That was when Clarke noticed the change. It frazzled her that she had been paying such close attention that she would notice such things; her tutors, too, noticed her interest drifting from maths and history and geography.

“Well,” the tutors would tell her mother every time they caught her looking out of the window, “it is normal for her age to be interested in boys and such affections.”

But it wasn’t the boys. It was just Bellamy.

The change was this: when Bellamy was training with the other initiates, his motions were too deliberate, too stiff and too unnatural, like a marionette being jerked around by an inexperienced puppet master. _He’s holding himself back,_ Clarke noted with a jolt of surprise one afternoon. Bellamy would raise his practice sword to strike, and his opponent would flinch, and he’d end up hitting the other boy with less than half of the strength Clarke knew he was capable of. She’d seen him chop wood on his off days. She _knew_ he was capable of more.

And when the older opponents were finally brought in, a few months after he began his training, it was as if something inside him had been unlocked. He fought like he was trying to survive. Desperate, fierce, unhinged. His blows came harder, his feet moved quicker, his punches more brutal. And even if the opponent turned out to be stronger than him still, Bellamy would pick himself back up, flash a wolfish grin, and fight again. It was Bellamy at his full potential, and he was as glorious as any prince.

When the tutors caught Clarke drawing a dark-haired boy drawing back a bow, eyes focused and brightly burning, they’d only tut and smile and – when the princess was out of earshot – bet amongst themselves about which of the guards had caught the princess’ keen interest.

Half a year after he came to the palace, Bellamy outgrew his academic lessons as well.

“He’s always running on fumes after your sparring sessions, Kane,” his history professor bemoaned at the captain during their weekly meeting. “If he isn’t fast asleep at the back of the class, he’s skipping the lessons entirely with his sister and that Murphy lad from the kitchens.”

“But is he failing?” the captain countered idly, not even looking up from his papers.

“Well,” the professor stuttered, “no. Far from it. He’s the best in my class, if the exam papers could be believed, but—”

“Then maybe he’s bored,” the captain concluded, gathering his papers and heading out the door. When the professor shouted after him, the captain turned back with a small, patient smile. “Don’t worry, professor. He won’t trouble you anymore.”

The next day, there was a knock at the library doors during Clarke’s tutoring session. In the following weeks, everyone would speculate how the captain managed to make the queen agree with such an outrageous request. It was… unconventional, to say the least. The court talked, as the court always did. Eventually, even the townsfolk murmured about the princess and the freckled boy that, strangely, but inevitably, began joining her every afternoon for her classes.

Here are three rumors, presented by one busybody to another:

  1. _They share a table! Imagine that! Some ruddy-faced miscreant rubbing elbows – literally! – with the princess! _This was false. Bellamy had his own desk behind Clarke. Some semblance of the hierarchy had to be maintained, after all. This bothered Clarke, but not so much Bellamy. The position allowed him to stare at the princess’ back all afternoon – not for any nefarious reasons, of course. He was entranced by her hair; every day, it was in some intricate braid or coronet that he was duty-bound as an older brother to commit to memory for his younger sister. That was all, really. That was all.
  2. _But, of course, the princess is ahead of the boy by leagues. I am sure the boy is falling behind at every turn. _This was also false. In maths and the sciences, Clarke led by quite a large margin, but found herself matched when it came to history. The royal tutors were quite amused the first time Bellamy calmly, politely corrected Clarke’s misconception of the King Thaddeus’s Famine being caused by a rat infestation. _“It was a heatwave, actually, Your Highness,” _the boy had said, with that same wolfish grin he always had when he knew he was winning. The princess humbly conceded, but her cheeks had flushed, and the tutors theorized it was because the princess had never made such a crucial mistake before. Like all theories, though, they acknowledged it was open for discussion.
  3. _I won’t be surprised if the princess is repulsed by the audacity of it all. She must despise him and his arrogance._ Oh, if they only knew.

One afternoon, a year after the Blake siblings came to the palace, Clarke dropped her quill. Bellamy bent to fetch it, as did she. For the briefest of moments, as they reached, their hands brushed.

Bellamy was the first to draw back, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he said quickly.

She didn’t know what he was sorry for. “It’s alright,” she said, and picked up her pen to resume taking down notes about the neighboring kingdom’s trade policies.

That afternoon, Bellamy failed a test for the first time.

“Do I bother you, Bellamy?”

The question was so quiet Bellamy thought he might have imagined it. He supposed it _had _to be quiet; they were meant to be doing their essays on the state affairs of Arkadia, and their tutors were sitting only a few tables away. Bellamy and Clarke sat across from one another, surrounded by stacks of books and pots of ink. Bellamy leaned over, hiding behind a tottering pile of treaties so the tutors couldn’t see him whisper back.

“Excuse me, Your Highness?”

Clarke kept her eyes on her parchment, her pen scratching methodically. “I asked if I bothered you.”

“Bother me?” Bellamy had to stop his voice from rising with his incredulity. “How could you – Why would you think that, princess?”

“Well.” And here Clarke paused, putting her quill down by her parchment. “We’ve shared classes for a year now, and you’ve never talked to me. This is the first time we’ve properly talked, you know.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” She picked up her pen but didn’t continue writing. She raised her eyes to him. There was an unhurried calmness about her gaze, as if they had all the time in the world for talking. “I barely know you. You are to be my guard, and yet you’ve never spoken more than a few words to me before.”

“There was never time,” he said earnestly. “And no opportunity. What would the tutors say, if they see me overstepping?” His voice was grudging; his hand trembled as if he was trying very hard not to break his quill in half. It wasn’t just about talking, then; how many times had Bellamy been warned to stay away from her, to keep their respective statuses foremost in his mind? Clarke knew the people in Lower Arkadia harbored resentment towards the upper class – and with good reason – so why did she think Bellamy would be quite alright having that age-old misgiving always hovering around him?

“So, I do bother you,” she deduced, turning away from him. “I’m sorry. I should not have assumed otherwise. You have every right to find me in contempt. My family has failed you in every regard—”

“What?” His voice rose involuntarily. It echoed around the library, catching the attention of their tutors, who gave him a sharp look. “I mean,” said Bellamy, more quietly, “_what!_ This book is so… so intriguing. Yes. Very good insights.”

The tutors turned back to their own idle chitchat. Clarke stared at Bellamy across the table, eyes wide and mouth open as if she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or ask him what was wrong. She settled for the latter, feeling her cheeks heat; it was like the world was playing a joke and she was far, far behind.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Am I wrong to assume you find me intolerable because of my station? It is natural, isn’t it, for you to assume the worst of royalty, with the state of Lower Arkadia—”

“Oh, believe me, princess, I find many people here intolerable,” he said, then put a hand over his mouth, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud.

“No,” she said, reaching over to pry his fingers gently from his mouth. “Go on. I won’t tell.”

He cocked his head to the side, dark curls falling over his brown eyes. His gaze was inquisitive. Clarke smiled.

“If we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together, Bellamy Blake,” she said, still holding his hand in hers, “we might as well start revealing our secrets now.”

He slowly retracted his hand from hers, and for a moment Clarke froze, thinking he was shutting her out for good. But Bellamy only grinned at her.

“I can’t exactly find your family at fault for the state of Lower Arkadia,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He had the same pensive look in his eyes that he got every time they were discussing politics. “Poverty had always been a problem there, since the kingdom was established. It’s a systemic issue that can’t be solved so easily. It can’t help that the guards stationed there are just as corrupt as the local officials—”

“Really?” Clarke cut in, leaning forwards. “Which ones?”

“All of them, princess,” he said, giving her a look that she thought was wry.

“I should tell my mother—”

“Oh, she knows.” He huffed out a breath. “Believe me, she knows. And she’s trying – more than anyone else before her – to do the right thing. But it’s hard playing a good guy when everyone else is determined to keep the status quo.”

“You think some of her council is opposing her?”

“I know so,” he said sagely, or as sagely as a ten-year-old could manage. “Did you not hear them protesting at my presence my very first day here?”

“I did,” she admitted. “Believe you me, I find most of them simply atrocious.” She smiled, conspiratorially. She might have been a princess well-versed in propriety, but she was, above all, a nine-year-old child who – like all nine-year-old children – delighted in the act of speaking ill about adults. “They’re all so condescending, don’t you think? Always talking to you as if you’d just learned the alphabet yesterday.”

“At least they talk to you!” he said, chuckling. “Gods, I’ve lost count of how many inappropriate things I’ve heard simply because these lordlings don’t acknowledge my basic existence.”

Clarke’s eyes twinkled. “Inappropriate things like what, Bellamy Blake?”

There was that wolfish grin again. “I’d tell you, Your Highness,” he said, voice pitched low, “but I refuse to be known as the commoner boy that corrupted your spotless royal head.”

“Ah,” Clarke said with a sage nod, “so is it somewhat like Lord Huntley losing two of his estates after gambling all of his money away?”

“No,” Bellamy said, “it’s more on par with the Duke of Sankru having two mistresses.”

“Two?” challenged Clarke. “I’ve heard of _four_.”

Bellamy laughed. Clarke laughed. Their tutors gave Bellamy a firm scolding for disturbing the quiet; Clarke’s inattention was brought up, again, to her mother.

That night, Abigail asked Clarke if Bellamy was bothering her.

“Bothering me?” Clarke laughed. “Oh, I see why Bellamy found that so hysterical now.”

“So, he isn’t bothering you?” The queen was more than slightly amused by her daughter’s new friendship.

“Quite the opposite,” said Clarke.

The next afternnon, Clarke pushed her table back, and sat beside Bellamy Blake, their elbows lightly touching.

Two months into their friendship, Clarke had a startling realization.

“I’ve never met your sister,” she said, during another one of their writing sessions where they both talked more than they wrote. “I know her birthday and her favorite sweets and her favorite fairytale, but I’ve never met her.”

Bellamy looked uneasily around the library; one of their tutors had gone off for a meeting. The other, a rather ancient-looking man with a snow-white beard, was dozing off at the far end of the table.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Bellamy said after assuaging that no one was going to overhear. “The initiates’ barracks aren’t exactly the kind of place to bring a princess to.”

“But why not?” said Clarke. “If I’m to be queen one day, I need to know _all_ my subjects. Especially my future guard’s family!”

A slow smile crept over Bellamy’s face. It wasn’t his usual teeth-bearing grin. It was all soft edges, his dimples slightly showing. “You make a good point, Your Highness,” he said. He flicked his eyes to their old tutor, and his wolf’s grin made a quick reappearance. “Do you want to meet her now?”

Clarke blinked. Years of propriety training and decorum and rules flashed in her head for all but a second. If it had been months ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated in telling him no, they were supposed to be _learning_, they couldn’t afford to be so lax with their studies. But this was now. Looking back, Clarke would question what exactly had changed in her that anything other than a stern refusal left her mouth. And, even then, some part of her must have known that it had all to do with the freckled boy sitting across her.

And so Clarke Griffin, aged nine years and seven months, grinned back at Bellamy Blake, aged ten years and four months, and skipped her very first class.

They crept out towards the door, Bellamy leading Clarke with a hand around her wrist. She was trying very hard not to giggle, but the hysterics of it all made it hard not to. Bellamy kept shushing her, worried about waking the old tutor, but he was almost laughing as hard as she was. They made it to the door, and Bellamy flung it wide, and they escaped into the halls like birds uncaged, not holding back their laughter anymore, running at full sprint, their footsteps echoing past the amused guards standing by the door.

“Should we stop them?” one guard asked another.

The other one shrugged. “Our job’s to guard the library,” he said, looking on as the two children – one blonde, one raven-haired – disappeared quickly down the hall, still hand-in-hand. “It’s _his_ job to protect the princess. Or it will be eventually. Far be it for me to keep a fellow guard from his duties.”

Bellamy and Clarke ran the whole way across the castle to the initiates’ barracks, never once slowing. Clarke knew Bellamy was faster than her, but he kept her pace, never straying far from her side. By the time they reached the barracks, they were coughing and heaving in between their laughter, and Clarke’s dress had soaked through with sweat and her hair had fallen out of its coronet. Her tiara – a gift from her father – was askew.

Bellamy, leaning against the barracks door, stopped laughing long enough to set it right on her head. “There,” he said. “Now you’re a proper princess once more.”

Clarke showed her his sweat-drenched back. “You call this proper?” she said incredulously, still half-gasping, half-laughing. “You owe me a new silk dress, Bellamy Blake!”

“I’ll be sure to pay you back with my non-existent riches,” he said with a deep bow.

Clarke shoved him. He toppled over, sprawled on the ground with his arms around his stomach, still laughing.

The barracks door opened, just a crack, and a girl of about five poked her head out of the door. Beyond the doors, Clarke could see rows and rows of bed, all empty, with the initiates off to train or study, but she could pinpoint Bellamy’s at once: it was at the furthest end of the barracks, hastily made as if whomever occupied it had left in a hurry. The small bedside table beside it was stacked with thick books and rolls of parchment.

“Bell?” the girl at the door said, frowning down at her brother. “Why’re you on the floor?”

“O!” Bellamy exclaimed, clambering to his feet. He opened the door wider and pulled Octavia Blake to his side, grinning at Clarke. “Your Highness, may I present to you Octavia Blake of Lower Arkadia.”

Octavia _was _awfully small. She’d filled up a bit since Captain Kane took the siblings in, but Clarke still had to crouch to meet the other girl’s eyes. Octavia pressed herself closer to her brother, eyes wide as the princess’ scrutiny fell on her.

“Hello, Octavia,” Clarke said, smiling gently. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Octavia glared up at her older brother. “What did you tell the princess?” she said, with a sure threat to disembowel him if he’d said anything less than flattering.

“I told her you were the quickest little toddler in all of Lower Arkadia,” Bellamy said, mussing up his sister’s hair. “And you once beat Finn at a race.”

“Finn’s my friend,” Octavia explained patiently to the princess. “He’s from Arkadia, but he’s training with my brother to be a knight. But Bell is stronger.”

Clarke arched an eyebrow at Bellamy. “I never doubted that.”

Bellamy hurriedly looked away.

Octavia was still frowning at Clarke. “Bell told me not to talk bad about you because you’re different from the other rich people,” Octavia continued.

“Is that so?” Clarke glanced at Bellamy. “Your brother isn’t so bad, himself.”

Octavia made the face all younger siblings did when other people praised their older siblings. “He isn’t that great. He once got knocked in the head with a wooden sword.”

“So _that’s _why you came to class with that bump on your head last month,” Clarke said to Bellamy, stifling a laugh to save her friend some dignity. He flushed.

“I was distracted,” he grumbled.

“The unflappable Bellamy Blake, distracted?” Clarke could barely believe it. “Whatever was on your mind that could distract you so?”

Octavia was more than eager to tease her brother. She leaned towards Clarke with a grin that solidified her relation to Bellamy. “I bet it’s a girl. Finn says it’s some puppy love Bell’s developed—”

“Okay, that’s enough, O, we don’t need to bore the princess with speculation,” Bellamy said hurriedly, ushering Octavia back towards the barracks. He dropped a kiss to the top of her head when she began to protest. “I’ll see you for dinner. We have to get back to class before the tutors find out we’re gone.”

Octavia cocked her head to the side. “You mean _those_ tutors?” she asked, pointing down the hall.

And indeed, there were Bellamy and Clarke’s two tutors; the younger one must’ve come back from her meeting early and found the princess and her guard gone. The older one looked frazzled about having fallen asleep on the job; the older one just seemed pissed.

“Blake!” she screamed down the hall, pinning Clarke and Bellamy, red-handed, with a blazing glare. “Come back here, this instant!”

“Run!” Clarke screamed, taking Bellamy’s hand and pulling him down the hall.

“I’ll see you later, O!” Bellamy yelled back at his sister before following the princess away.

“Did you – oh, my gods – did you see her – Bellamy – _did you see her face?” _Clarke couldn’t remember another day in her life when she’d laughed so much. She could almost feel her laughter trying to break her ribs on its way up to her mouth. Her gut _hurt_, but it was the good kind of hurt, the hurt you could only get from pure, unadulterated joy.

Bellamy could barely string words along through his laughter. “When we rounded that corner, Your Highness, I _swear_ I heard Professor Lundgren’s knees give out from stress alone.”

“I would expect so, he seems old enough to be my great-grandfather’s senior!”

“Oh, I’m definitely getting in trouble for this.” He looked across to her. “But it was worth it.”

Clarke turned towards the horizon. “For this view alone? It is.”

They were sitting on the roof of one of the empty guard towers. Bellamy had worried she was going to slip, but it was the only place where they could have hidden from their angry tutors. She’d convinced him to help her with her skirts as she maneuvered out of the tower window, and all the while Bellamy’s heart was making a xylophone out of his ribcage. _Don’t fall, oh my gods, don’t fall, I will have to follow after you if you fall_, he’d thought, praying to the gods above, gods below or any god that would listen to keep the princess safe.

But he needn’t have worried. The princess found a foothold and had a strong enough grip to ease herself onto the roof. She leaned down and offered Bellamy a hand, but he found that he’d had enough handholding for the day and easily clambered up after her. And so they found themselves sitting side-by-side on the sloped shingles of the roof, still warm from the fading sunrays, looking over the Griffin family’s sprawling estate – the slopes of the castle turrets, the green fields where the soldiers practice archery and where the horses were grazing, the elegant arches and balconies, the perfectly manicured gardens, all soft and golden under the setting sun. And beyond the walls – the Arkadian Empire, Clarke’s inheritance, the kingdom she was born to rule.

But in that moment, her life was bound only herself, and the boy beside her.

At some point, their laughter gave way to hushed whispers about all the trouble they’d stirred up, and then to satisfied sighing, and then to a silence that was so easy and so natural and so comfortable that conversation seemed unnecessary and intrusive.

Clarke leaned her head on Bellamy’s shoulder. Bellamy stiffened, that age-old reflex to acknowledge nobility and lean away almost overtaking him. And then, when Clarke made a small, contented sound, he relaxed, and leaned against her, too.

He knew that the tutors would find them eventually. He’d get the scolding of his lifetime from Captain Kane, and Clarke would definitely be in trouble with the queen, and they’d probably have their tables placed away from one another as punishment. But, at the end of the day, he knew he would always be her guard, her knight, and she would always be his princess. That was something no one – no king, or queen, or captain of the guard – could take away from him.

“Princess,” Bellamy breathed.

“Yes, Bellamy?”

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?”

“Oh,” she said, and leaned closer towards him, her unbound hair spilling over his shoulders. “That’s a given, Bellamy Blake.”


	2. Bitter Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecomings, a first kiss, and Murphy wins a bet.

_Even now, you mark my steps_

_Lovely bitter water_

_All the days of our delights_

_are poison in my veins_

_I know I shouldn’t love you_

_(I know)_

_I am not a fool entire_

_No, I know what is coming_

_You’ll bury me beneath the trees I climbed_

_when I was a child_

_I know I shouldn’t love you_

_(But I do)_

\- **Bitter Water**, the Oh Hellos

* * *

Clarke leapt into his arms, burying her face into the crook of his neck and breathing in his familiar scent, still unfaded after all these years. His arms tightened around her waist as he spun them around and around, only setting her down after they were both dizzy and gasping for air.

“Oh, gods, I’ve missed you,” she laughed, smoothing out her skirts and grinning up at Wells Jaha, son of Duke Jaha from West Arkadia.

Wells grinned back at her and righted her tiara that had come askew with his enthusiastic greeting. “Missed you more, Your Highness.”

They’d met during one of King Jacob’s visits to Duke Jaha’s estate, and had been quick to latch on to each other. Duke Jaha was a valuable confidant of the king, so the visits were hardly rare. But as the king’s health began failing, the trips got more and more taxing for his body, and eventually they had to stop travelling altogether. While Duke Jaha wrote to the king, his son wrote to the king’s daughter. The last time Clarke had seen Wells in person was during her father’s funeral; shortly after, he had to go overseas to study some evolved sort of science that he dutifully detailed in all his letters back home to Clarke. Now, years later, he’d returned, taller than her now, but that she could forgive if only for the fact that he’d raced home the moment his studies ended just in time for Clarke’s seventeenth birthday.

Wells was Clarke’s oldest friend, and there was nothing in the world that she kept from him.

The servants began unloading Wells’ things from his coach. Clarke and Wells left them to it. They walked up the palace stairs and down the twisting halls, talking excitedly about all they’d been up to all these years, all they’d forgotten to pen down in their numerous letters to one another. Clarke led Wells into the gardens, where a small tea party had been set up: a chess set with glass pieces waited on a table under a tree with sweet-smelling blossoms, surrounded with trays of cakes and tarts and glasses of iced tea. The servants and guards milling about the place stood to attention at Clarke and Wells’ entrance.

Wells and Clarke took their seats across one another; as when they were younger, Wells sat by the black chess pieces, and Clarke ruled over the silver pieces. A servant presented them with their choice of cakes: Wells reached for chocolate, Clarke chose _ube_.

“Huh,” said Wells as they balanced their plates by the chess set. “I remember your favorite being carrot cake. I always used to tease you about it.”

“Ah, but you learned your folly when you tried some during my eighth birthday and had a spiritual awakening to the wonders of carrots.” Clarke picked at her _ube _cake before shrugging. “_Ube_ is Lower Arkadia’s main produce. It never hurts to support the locals. Plus, it’s damnably delicious.” She pushed it encouragingly towards him. “Here, give it a try.”

Wells sunk his fork into the purple cake and plopped a chunk into his mouth. “Oh, wow,” he said, eyes widening as he swallowed it down. “That's leagues better than carrot cake_. Leagues!_”

She beamed. “Right? The _ube_ farms were especially fruitful this year.”

“All part of your mother’s Lower Arkadia reforms, correct?” Wells asked around a mouthful of cake. His upper lip was stained violet by the _ube_ icing. It contrasted greatly with the seriousness with which he asked the question. Wells had always taken politics very seriously. He was much like his father, in that regard.

“Yes,” Clarke confirmed. “It took years for mother to lobby the reforms. The council was divided. At one point, it got so bad even I and Captain Kane had to step in.”

“I would have loved to see that,” said Wells. “I’m imagining you, pink in the face with anger against all those wrinkly old hogs, shaking your tiny fists.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it sound so dramatic. I merely presented my arguments in a calm, dignified manner as suited a princess.”

“Ah,” said Wells with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Of course. I expect you blew them all away?”

“That’s one way of saying it,” said Clarke, taking a long, long sip from her cup of tea.

In truth, she’d accosted and harassed various members of the council and court until they finally gave in, if only to get rid of Clarke’s incessant badgering. They would shake their heads and wonder what had gotten into her, and why Lower Arkadia was suddenly a top priority. It wouldn't take long for them to figure it out.

Clarke reached for the chess pieces and made the first move. Wells clucked his tongue, smiling at her over the chess set. Sunlight broke through the trees above, and a strong spring wind drifted over the gardens.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Wells said. “You always made that move first.”

Clarke hummed. “Maybe so. But I’ve learned new tricks from my new chess partner, so don’t be so sure of yourself, Jaha.”

Wells leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, appraising the board before him with narrowed eyes, his eyebrows furrowed. _He’s more muscular now_, Clarke noted with some surprise, eyeing the smooth curve of Wells’ biceps under his dark-green tunic. Of course he wasn’t the only one that had changed over the years. Clarke had grown into her own curves, as well. Her hair was now long enough to sway past her hips, though she always kept it in a coronet or some other type of braid. And she’d gotten taller – though not as tall as Octavia, who was five years younger than her but somehow an inch taller.

“It’s Blake genetics,” Octavia had teased her once. “Just look at big brother; he’s almost as tall as Captain Kane, and he’s only eighteen.”

Oh, Bellamy didn’t allow Clarke to forget that.

“I assume this new chess partner also gave you lessons on mind games?” Wells teased, making his move after a brief hesitation.

“Oh, no,” said Clarke, almost humming as she moved to counter. “I learned that myself.”

“And will I get to meet this elusive chess partner at the ball tonight?” Wells smiled slyly. “I’ve heard so much about this Bellamy fellow for the past decade that I’ve built him up in my head. In my mind, he’s carved straight from marble with impressive chiseled anatomy.”

Clarke didn’t allow Wells’ smooth talking to distract her. “You can meet him right now. Part of his Queen’s Guard training is to practice standing around doing nothing all day. So he’s standing behind you, with all the other guards. Don’t be too obvious—”

And, of course, Wells had to fully swivel around his seat to get a look at the boy that had so rudely dethroned him as Clarke’s best friend. Wells didn’t blame him, of course; by Clarke’s letters, he could tell this Bellamy Blake of hers helped Clarke through the rocky years after her father’s passing, in Wells' absence. He couldn’t help but be thankful that at least when he was gone, someone was there to hold his friend together. It had been his only regret in moving overseas, that he would be leaving Clarke Griffin alone to the cold mercy of the court. He needn’t have worried.

Clarke had sent some crude sketches over the years of the peasant boy that would become part of her guard, but Wells found that even Clarke’s rapidly improving drawings did not do the man justice.

He stood among a row of guards guarding the perimeter of the gardens, but Wells picked him out almost immediately by the two gold stripes running down the left side of his chest plate, signifying his rank as a trainee for the Queen’s Guard – leagues above the common castle guard. He stood straight-backed in the afternoon heat, dark eyes scanning the space for threats. His hair was a tangle of dark curls, his skin like burnished bronze traced with silver scars. Wells had the distinct impression that he was looking at a bow pulled taut, waiting for the simplest of movements to spring and fire.

Clarke pulled Wells’ attention back to her.

“Thank you for being discreet, Wells,” she said drily. But there was a small, eager smile on her face. “Did he meet your expectations?”

“Is your Queen’s Guard made up of impeccable deities, or is Bellamy Blake the godly exception?”

Clarke resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Here it goes._ Over the years, as puberty crashed into Bellamy like a stir-crazy horse set free from its reigns, she’d borne the brunt of everyone’s sudden and vivid realizations that Bellamy Blake was _astoundingly beautiful_. Courtiers that had spurned him when he was a scrawny little kid suddenly fawned over his dark locks and freckled cheeks. A few of Clarke’s artist friends had expressed their want – nay, _need_ – to have him model for them. Young ladies and lords swooned and lamented the fact that he was not of any noble breeding, because he would’ve made a fine consort, and “oh, the scandal of falling in love with someone far below my station would simply ruin my mother’s heart… but maybe perhaps I’d risk it all for him.” Clarke had heard (and stomached) it all. People suddenly tripping over themselves for a boy that Clarke once saw drop a piece of bread on the floor, scoop it up, and eat it without hesitation… It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so damned annoying. They were ogling at Bellamy as if he was some new revelation – but he’d always been Bellamy to Clarke. Just Bellamy.

She couldn’t imagine how worse it was for Octavia, who was related to Bellamy and therefore had to face the added bonus of people expecting her to grow into her looks as her brother had.

“I feel _watched_,” the younger girl had commented disgustedly during one of Clarke’s visits to their quarters (an unprecedented move; princesses didn't simply make casual visits with her guards, but Clarke had thrown that particular act of decorum out the window years ago). “They’re like vultures, circling around me, as if my life is theirs to pick apart and coo at.”

“That’s the nature of the court, Octavia. Beauty and fanfare and glory – that’s all they will ever care about,” Clarke told her patiently. She’d wished it wasn’t true, but growing up in the middle of the court’s vicious scrutiny had taught Clarke all the hard and bitter truths at a young age.

“You’ll meet the rest of my guards-in-training at the ball,” Clarke said to Wells now, looking away from Bellamy to focus on their game. “Jasper and Monty are on stable duty after causing some ruckus yesterday with the Duke of Yujleda’s hairpiece. Raven’s probably at the forges again, and Murphy’s always a tough one to pin down.”

“Murphy’s… the black sheep, as I recall from your letters.” Wells stole another bite off of Clarke’s _ube_ cake.

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him. Bellamy trusts him, and I trust Bellamy. That’s enough for me.”

Wells arched an eyebrow at her. “You would place the fate of your empire on the basis on one man’s opinion?”

“It’s not as dramatic as that.”

“Except it is. These people will be with you through your whole reign. They will be your last line of defense. If you say you trust Murphy, that’s well and good. But if you’re saying you trust Bellamy to trust Murphy… It seems flimsy, Clarke. And we can’t afford to be flimsy, especially with Sanctum—”

“Wells,” Clarke cut him off with a sigh. “Sanctum’s been the only thing on my mind for the past year. Just for this one day, could we not…?”

Wells' brows knotted. “I’m just saying, Clarke. With all this trouble with Sanctum, a bit of doubt may be the only thing between you and an assassination.”

Clarke could see where Wells was coming from. If the roles were reversed, she would also be wary of who her friend was keeping for company.

But Wells didn’t know Bellamy as Clarke did.

Clarke smiled, trying to assuage Wells’ worry. She reached over and squeezed Wells’ hand. She’d missed his voice and his calm counsel. “I’ll be fine, Wells.”

Wells’ expression softened, and he squeezed her hand back. “If you say so, Your Highness.” He moved his piece. “Check, by the way.”

“You distracted me!” Clarke laughed, drawing back to assess the chess game. “I may have you pay me back for this treachery with _two_ mandatory dances during the ball.”

Wells put a hand to his heart in mock pain. “How cruel! Will we have a tyrant on the throne of our empire?”

Clarke laughed, putting the thought of Sanctum and war and Bellamy’s string of suitors out of her mind. She could feel Bellamy’s eyes on her, and she shot him a reassuring smile over Wells’ shoulder. He nodded back, ever the stoic guard on duty.

Wells snapped his fingers to get Clarke’s attention. “I think _someone else_ is doing the distracting for me.”

“Sorry,” said Clarke, smoothing out her skirts. She made her move. “I’m really glad you’re here, Wells. I don’t think I could’ve lived through tonight without you.”

“Oh,” said Wells, glancing back at Bellamy. “I think you could have managed.”

Clarke smiled. Wells made his move. Clarke made hers.

“Checkmate,” she whispered.

Wells sat back, astounded. He stared slack-jawed at the chess board, and cursed when he realized what Clarke had been planning all along.

“And _you_ had the audacity to accuse me of _treachery_?” he demanded with false outrage. “You – You master distractor!”

“As I was saying,” said Clarke, beginning to arrange the pieces for another game, “I have an excellent chess partner – but an even better skill for mind games.”

“So,” said Octavia, spinning around in a flurry of bright-orange silk and sequins, “what do you think?”

Bellamy sat back on his bed, assessing his sister from head to toe. “Orange suits you, O,” he said honestly, because he never could find a color that didn't suit his little sister, “but did you really have to go all out with the sequins? You could blind a duke with your sleeves alone, and _I’d_ have to do all the explaining and groveling.”

Octavia made a petulant face that twelve-year-olds were all so good at. “You’re just jealous you have to be in clunky armor all night long.”

“Hey,” Bellamy said gently, “this clunky armor got us this fancy room.” He gestured around the space the siblings shared; it was big enough for two beds, two wardrobes, and a bookshelf overflowing with books and scrolls, with more room to spare. It wasn’t fit for a royal, but at least Bellamy and Octavia weren’t sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder on the dirt anymore, as they had in Lower Arkadia. They’d moved in when Bellamy transitioned from basic guard training to training specifically to be part of the future Queen’s Guard. The other members started moving in into the adjacent rooms shortly after they’d been drafted.

Aside from the new housing, another perk of being part of Clarke’s Queen’s Guard was that his sister got to enjoy all the frivolous aspects of Arkadia’s court. Octavia might scoff at nobility and prefer swordfighting to teatime, but she’d never been known to turn down a party. And what was a bigger party than the princess’ seventeenth birthday ball, where all the lords and ladies of the land flocked into the capital in all their frivolous glory?

Octavia, as always, ignored Bellamy’s input and hummed a tune to herself as she twisted this way and that, admiring herself in the mirror propped up beside her bed. Clarke had offered Octavia free pickings from her old dresses – resized by the royal tailor to fit Octavia’s thinner frame – and Octavia had managed to find the one that induced the worst eye strain. Bellamy couldn’t remember Clarke wearing that particular orange monstrosity, nor could he imagine her in it, but he supposed as princess, Clarke could afford to have a million dresses simply sitting in her wardrobe, gathering dust, until she outgrew them. Bellamy tried not to over-sympathize with a piece of clothing.

“I think the blue one would look better,” Bellamy tried helplessly, knowing he could never dissuade Octavia from something once she set her mind on it. Thankfully, miraculously, she seemed to consider his words this time, eyeing the dark-blue, considerably-less-sequined dress lying across her bed.

As she reached for it, a knock came at the door.

“I’ll get it!” Bellamy said hurriedly, not wanting to disrupt a rare appearance of Octavia’s rationality. He bounded off towards the door, his armor clinking softly with the movement. He barely noticed the added weight anymore. He reached the door. “Who’s there?”

“The best thing that’s ever happened to you,” a sing-song voice replied.

“Captain Kane cancelling etiquette practice?”

“Good guess, but no.”

Bellamy pulled the door open to find Raven Reyes standing in the dimly-lit hallway beyond. Raven frowned at Bellamy, and he returned the gesture.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” he asked, eyeing her simple tunic and patterned trousers. A shimmery gold cloth was wrapped around her waist like a belt – a gift from Queen Abigail, if Bellamy remembered correctly. (The queen treated all of Clarke's guards like her own children, constantly getting them gifts and trinkets; it had taken Bellamy a while to wrap his head around the fact that a royal's kindness could come without any strings attached.)

“I’d ask you the same thing,” said Raven, stepping around Bellamy to enter his bedroom. “The princess said we weren’t on duty tonight.”

“That’s not her call to make,” Bellamy retorted, closing the door and looking for Raven, who quickly disappeared behind the divider to help Octavia change out of the orange gown. “The palace will be full of strangers tonight, Raven. We can’t afford to—”

Raven stuck her head out from behind the divider and treated Bellamy to a roll of her eyes. “It’s orders straight from the top, Bellamy. Who are we to argue?”

“We are to be her Queen’s Guard. We have to start learning when and how to make the tough calls for her and – Raven, are you listening to me?”

“No, because look at how cute O is!” Raven pulled his sister out from behind the divider.

Octavia spun around, giggling as the new gown’s skirt spilled around her spindly legs like running water. This gown Bellamy _could _imagine Clarke in, but he put the thought hastily away. “You look beautiful, O,” he said, smiling at his sister.

Octavia smiled back at him before bouncing off to inspect herself in the mirror. Bellamy swallowed down a sudden and unexpected rush of emotion. He could still remember scrubbing dirt off her face and picking lice from her hair as they wasted away on the streets of Lower Arkadia after their parents’ deaths, and now here she was, pink-cheeked with health and dressed in royal hand-me-downs. He knew not everyone could be as lucky. He dreamed, as he always had, of a world where luxury didn’t depend on luck.

Raven stepped towards him, her brows knitting together in worry. Next to Clarke and Octavia, Raven was the one person Bellamy could rely on to notice something off with him.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “I – Maybe we _do_ deserve some time off.”

Raven grinned. “That’s the spirit, Blake. Go change out of that awkward armor. Everyone else is already dressed and waiting downstairs.”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t tell me _none_ of you had had any intention of standing guard tonight.”

Raven huffed. “Gods, _no_. Here’s some advice, Blake: when the princess of the biggest empire on the continent orders you to have fun, _don’t complain_.”

“Alright, alright,” Bellamy laughed. “Give me a minute. I have to find something to wear.”

There was a glint in Raven’s eyes at terrified Bellamy. “Oh, I was waiting for you to say that,” she said, advancing on him. It was only then that Bellamy noticed the heavy bag hanging from her shoulder. “I have _just_ the thing…”

“Whichever one of you decided this was a good idea,” Bellamy said, “I will murder you in your sleep.”

He could hear some scuffling behind him and guessed it was Monty and Jasper, elbowing each other, always daring the other to take the fall. Murphy and Finn were snickering; Harper and Fox had not met his eyes since they’d met up to go to the ball together. His fellow Queen’s Guard initiates were having the time of their lives, at his expense. What else was new?

Raven had basically manhandled him into it. He’d almost escaped her clutches, but Octavia had decided to join in orchestrating her brother’s public humiliation. He couldn’t very well overpower his own little sister. Despite his unending protests, he’d swaggered off to join the rest of the future Queen’s Guard with his hair slicked back, wearing what could only be described as the antithesis of everything Bellamy stood for. He didn’t know where Raven had gotten her hands on a jet-black coat trimmed with gold, tight trousers and a frilled white tunic, but nonetheless it was what Bellamy was forced to wear to the princess’ seventeenth birthday ball.

Murphy had burst out laughing when Bellamy met up with them. Miller had simply mock curtsied and said, “My lord,” with a shit-eating grin that Bellamy grudgingly admitted was a bit warranted. He _did _look like a proper lord, and he hated it from the high collar of his coat down to his polished boots.

Murphy composed himself enough to jog up to Bellamy and sling his arm around Bellamy’s shoulders. Unlike Bellamy, Murphy and the rest of them were dressed sensibly; only Octavia in her shiny dress from Clarke could come close to matching Bellamy’s absurdity, but at least Octavia seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Honestly, Bellamy, it’s not that bad,” Murphy said, though the manic look in his eyes betrayed his true sentiments. “Might as well look your very best for the princess’ birthday, am I right?”

“Yeah, Bell,” Fox chimed in. “If I didn’t know you, I would’ve mistaken you for some duke.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Bellamy grumbled, shrugging Murphy’s arm off him. “Compose yourselves. We’re almost there.”

They were coming up the ballroom. They were early, true to form, and the guards standing by the carved wood doors admitted them with a cursory once-over and a nod of familiarity. Bellamy still remembered training with them during his earlier years at the castle; he could never forget his roots with the palace guards, just as he couldn’t erase Lower Arkadia from his blood.

The future Queen’s Guard piled into the ballroom one by one: Bellamy first with Octavia, then Raven and Murphy, then Fox and Harper, then Monty and Jasper, with Miller and Finn taking up at the rear. They found themselves atop a staircase opening up to a large open space below that would be teeming with lords and ladies later into the night. But at this time, the herald announced them one by one to a more or less empty room.

The servants were still rushing about, making final preparations to the tables lining the hall and rearranging the sweet-smelling roses spilling out from the large gold vases that decorated the room. Octavia excitedly bounded off towards a table in the corner with a place card at its center simply saying _Queen’s Guard Initiates. _Jasper and Monty made to follow her and tried to make a beeline for the nearest servant bearing a platter of hors d’oeuvres, but Bellamy caught them both by the neckline of their tunics and hauled them back to him.

“Hey!” Jasper protested, shaking Bellamy off him. “Bellamy, the finger foods are calling my name! This is our one chance at fancy life before the actual fancy people get here.”

“You’ll have all the time in the world later,” Bellamy told them all. They shuffled into a close semi-circle around him to hear his words over the sudden blare of the string quartet tuning their instruments in the corner. “But for now, we have duties to perform.”

Fox and Harper exchanged a look. “Uh, aren’t we supposed to be… off-duty, Bell?” Harper asked meekly.

“That doesn’t mean we can slack off. The castle guards must’ve done their rounds already, but just to be safe, I want each of you combing this place for any vulnerabilities or any suspicious persons.”

“Suspicious like the girl serving small, cut up fish?” Monty scoffed.

Bellamy cut him a look. Monty shuffled closer to Jasper.

“Raven, you take Monty and survey the west balconies. I don’t want him and Jasper distracting each other – Jasper, you go with Miller to the east balconies. Murphy, Harper, Fox, check the dais and the tables. Finn, do a full round of the room.”

Finn nodded, then hesitated.

“What?” Bellamy demanded, when none of them moved to go.

“Well…” Finn glanced at Raven, who nodded encouragingly. “I suppose we’re all just wondering what’s up with the overabundance of caution, Bell. You seem… on edge.”

Murphy snorted. “That’s one way of saying it.” He looked straight at Bellamy and said, “You have a stick up your ass, man.”

Fox elbowed him, but didn’t exactly look like she disagreed.

Bellamy sighed, almost reaching to ruffle his hair in irritation before remembering the copious amounts of gel Raven had so _generously_ applied on to it. “Everyone who’s anyone will be at this party tonight. There will be a lot of unknown variables, and I have to account for them all if we’re to keep Princess Clarke alive long enough to see her on her father's throne.”

“But it’s not just tonight,” Monty piped up, regaining his courage. “Bellamy, you’ve barely slept in _weeks_. You run yourself ragged during our drills. You’ve lost some weight, you snap at everything. And don’t say it’s about Sanctum, because Sanctum’s on everyone’s mind but you’re being hit harder than even the queen, and it’s _her _empire on the line. It can’t just be that.”

Sanctum. Gods, Bellamy had almost forgotten about the trouble with their neighboring empire. The small skirmishes at the border. The growing tension… But, of course, that must be why he’d been so keyed up. There was no other viable reason – at least, not one he could give them without earning a sobering punch from Murphy and a scathing reprimand from Miller and maybe a very disappointed sigh from Raven. 

“It’s just Sanctum,” he said finally, desperately trying to inject as much honesty into his words. “We don’t know what their next move is, and that worries me.”

They all looked unconvinced. Bellamy clapped his hands twice to break them out of their intense focus on him.

“Alright, you have your roles – the sooner you can get them done, the sooner you can go back to pretending we’re all fancy rich folk,” he said, trying to get them to leave him alone.

That seemed to do it. They shuffled off to their assignments. Murphy alone seemed to hesitate, flashing Bellamy a look over his shoulder as he walked away. Bellamy raised an eyebrow at him, challenging, and Murphy shrugged, turning away from him and following Harper and Fox down the stairs.

When all of them were out of earshot, Bellamy sighed and leaned against the bannister, looking down over the ballroom. He sometimes wondered if it was a mistake recommending Murphy to Kane for the Queen’s Guard. The other boy was too perceptive for his own good, and too cunning by far. Bellamy had no doubt Murphy had had some hand in his ridiculous outfit tonight.

Of the eight Queen’s Guard trainees with him, Bellamy had recommended only Murphy. Miller, Finn, Harper and Fox were handpicked by the queen and Captain Kane. Raven was the daughter of two of the palace’s best smiths and came highly recommended. Monty’s mother was a former member of Queen Abigail’s Queen’s Guard before she passed, and his academic prowess during his days in the palace’s classes quickly made him out to be the perfect candidate for the next Queen’s Guard. And where Monty went, so did Jasper. In a few years, Octavia might even join their ranks.

He’d known them for years. He trusted them with his life. But that wasn’t the question. Bellamy’s hands tightened around the iron bannister. Could he trust them with _Clarke’s _life? He knew he was being unfair. But with Sanctum looming over them, and with Clarke’s ascension coming up in a year's time, it was hard not to doubt his own instincts.

Murphy’s contemplative look burned in Bellamy’s head. _He knows. _Of course Murphy knows. Raven, too, most likely. Most of them – if not all of them – must have some inkling of doubt by now.

People talked. They had been talking since Bellamy came to the castle. He thought he’d gotten used to it. He’d learned how to tune them out. But it was different when it hit too close to home, and even more so if it was their friends doing the whispering. He had been so careful, gods damn it, so why were Murphy and Raven and Monty and everyone else looking at him as if they pitied him, as if they _knew_ and they were _sorry_ and _of course_ it wasn’t about Sanctum. That wasn't the reason why he'd been so irritable, so distracted, so lost in his own pathetic musings. It wasn't Sanctum. Not even a little bit. Not even at all.

Wells excused himself from another listless conversation and wandered deeper into the crowded ballroom floor, a flute of champagne in his hand. Most of the guests had arrived sometime after sunset; they were waiting on only a few more key guests and, of course, the birthday girl herself. He wished Clarke had arrived early so he could have someone to talk to and not have to pretend to be interested in the Duke of Yujleda’s toupee mysteriously going missing and Lady Maribelle’s secret affair with one of her handmaids. Clarke… Clarke _understood_ him, as no one else did, and she was part of the reason why he’d ended his studies early to come home. He’d missed her terribly. He missed talking to her, most of all, not just through letters that took too long to cross the ocean. He and Clarke had always managed to carve out a little world all to themselves. Some things stayed exactly the same after all these years. And some things had changed, and he knew it had all to do with—

_Well, speak of the devil_, thought Wells, spotting him across the ballroom, leaning against a tall vase overflowing with red roses.

Bellamy decided he hated parties. He’d been to many over the years; it came with being Clarke’s guard. She was invited to everything and, by extension, so was he. He’d always found them suffocating.

“All these utensils and little food and mellow music,” he’d remarked to Clarke once, “and all this _propriety_. In Lower Arkadia, a party wasn’t a party until someone dislocated something.”

She’d laughed, then, and Bellamy thought that maybe parties weren’t as bad as he thought.

But. Tonight. Tonight was _Bad_ with a capital B. When the guests started trickling in shortly after Raven and the others finished with their rounds, Bellamy already felt irritated. Even more so when they filled up the ballroom to the brim with their sparkly gowns and polished boots. The cloying scent of roses was too overwhelming. Half the guests reeked of politics and hidden agendas, the other half just reeked. His clothes were hot and itchy and smothering, and he could tell everyone who looked at him knew he wasn’t meant to be wearing them. He was supposed to be standing in line by the wall, unblinking and indistinct from the rest of the guards keeping watch.

“Not having much fun, are you?” a voice said at his elbow.

Bellamy’s eyes slid to the boy that had sidled up to him. He was holding a half-empty flute of champagne in his hand. _His _clothes, Bellamy noted, seemed to fit him impeccably.

Bellamy knew who he was instantly. Bellamy had spent the better part of the afternoon tracking the movement of his hand over Clarke's and judging his chess prowess.

“You’re Clarke’s friend,” Bellamy said. “Lord Wells Jaha, son of Duke Thelonious Jaha, one of Queen Abigail’s advisors.”

Wells raised an eyebrow. “Did your research on me, did you?”

“It’s my job to.”

“Of course, of course.” Wells took a swig of his wine, downing all of it before passing off the empty glass to a passing servant. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Clarke. She seems to trust you a lot.”

Bellamy cut Wells a look, but Wells was smiling at some lord in the crowd, waving amiably. But Bellamy knew he didn’t imagine the mistrust in Wells’ voice.

“You think she shouldn’t?” Bellamy asked, crossing his arms and trying to look unperturbed.

“Friendship and trust is rare for monarchs, and I’m glad Clarke at least found someone she’s willing to put her faith in,” Wells said, which Bellamy noted wasn’t exactly an answer. “But dark times are coming. Trust is going to be hard to come by.”

“You mean Sanctum.”

Wells nodded. “I read the reports. Sanctum’s been making attempts at our borders for years. All intel suggests that they’re preparing for _something_, but we don’t know what, and the best we can do is shore up our defenses and wait for the hammer to drop.”

“You seem like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“I have. It’s why I came back to Arkadia.”

“What?”

Wells brushed a rose petal off his shoulder. “I’m going to finish my studies here, so I can take up my father’s position as councilor to the queen when Clarke ascends.” Wells glanced at Bellamy. “Clarke didn’t tell you that?”

She hadn’t. But Bellamy wouldn’t admit that to him, not in a million years. “So I suppose we’ll be seeing more of each other,” he said instead.

“I suppose we will.” Bellamy didn’t think he imagined the smugness in those words, either.

The blare of a horn sounded from the staircase, followed by the herald’s announcement of a newcomer: “Announcing the arrival of Duke Roan of Azgeda.”

A man in his early twenties came down the staircase, followed by a chestnut-haired girl about Bellamy’s age that sneered at the courtiers gaping at them. His ward, most likely.

“_Now _things are getting interesting,” Wells mused beside Bellamy.

“Oh?” Bellamy asked, humoring him. “And why’s that?”

“Because, my friend, we might just be looking at our future king.”

_What? _Bellamy thought.

“What?” Bellamy said out loud, unable to keep the incredulity to himself.

Wells was still smiling, but Bellamy thought it may be at Bellamy’s expense. “Azgeda is a region known for its fierce warriors. It would do well to strengthen our alliance with them with a marriage, don’t you think? A warrior king on the throne. Won’t that be a sight?”

Bellamy searched the crowd for Duke Roan. He was easy to spot; he was easily one of the tallest men in the room, broad-shouldered with a sweep of dark-brown hair. Even swaddled in silk and lace, it was easy to imagine the duke on a battlefield, covered in blood and swinging a broadsword. _Warrior king_. Roan was speaking to one of the other dukes by the staircase. The girl with him – his ward – looked up and caught Bellamy staring at them.

Bellamy looked away from her intense caramel gaze. “It would be advantageous, for sure.”

“And yet you sound disapproving.” Wells peered at him, and there was no smile on his face anymore. “Why is that?”

_Indeed. Why is that? _“I have no opinion on the matter.”

Wells sighed through his nose. As if Bellamy had failed a test he hadn’t even known he was taking. As if Bellamy disappointed him. “Of course. The dutiful knight, by his princess’ side. Faceless. Voiceless. Will you always be content with that, I wonder?” Before Bellamy could say something he would regret, Wells perked up, spotting something. “Speaking of dutiful knights…”

The herald spoke again. “Announcing the arrival of Her Majesty, Queen Abigail Griffin, Queen of the Arkadian Empire, and the captain of her noble Queen’s Guard, Captain Marcus Kane.”

This time, the room hushed. People dropped to their knees, even Bellamy and Wells.

“Please rise,” Queen Abigail said, and they did. She floated down the staircase, Captain Marcus in his polished armor helping her down, holding one of her gloved hands. The crowd parted to allow the queen a clear way towards the dais, where she sat at one of the thrones. Captain Kane took his place standing beside her, surveying the crowd.

The sight of them together tugged at Bellamy’s gut. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d seen the captain stray too far from the queen’s side. He was always there, always hovering, always beside her.

The next captain of the Queen’s Guard would be chosen from the pool of trainees, but though each of them had a chance at being named Captain Kane’s successor, there had been no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would be Bellamy by Clarke’s side in the end.

What had Wells said? _The dutiful knight, by his princess’ side. Faceless. Voiceless._

The future yawned open before Bellamy.

“I’ll speak to the queen,” Wells announced, pushing off the vase they’d been leaning against. There was a rose petal on his shoulder again. Bellamy didn’t mention it. “I’ll take my leave of you then, Bellamy Blake. I look forward to our future endeavors together.”

And then he left, blending into the crowd seamlessly. He was part of their world, after all.

Bellamy stood alone in the shadows.

“Announcing the arrival of Princess Clarke Griffin, Heir Apparent of the Arkadian Empire.”

There was no silence for her, as there had been for her mother. The people didn’t kneel. They would, eventually, when she had a heavier crown upon her brow. But tonight they remained standing, transfixed, and applauding. Their applause mingled with the sweet melody of the string quartet playing Clarke’s favorite song.

_Okay, Clarke, breathe, you practiced for this_—

And she’d done this a million times before. With bigger crowds. With fuller rooms. With fancier clothes. She was a princess raised to face the world.

And Wells was home. And her mother was waiting for her across the room, beaming. And it was her birthday. And Bellamy was somewhere in that crowd, dressed in clothes she’d handpicked for him, and she couldn’t wait to see him.

And so Clarke descended, smiling, and full of joy.

Murphy was watching Bellamy watching Clarke. As the princess made her way through the crowd to raucous applause, Bellamy watched her from the shadows with the same hopeless face he’d been pulling for weeks now. Murphy stood across the room, smirking at his future captain. It was like watching two carriages roaring down the road towards one another. The carnage was inevitable, and it would be _awful_, but Murphy couldn’t seem to look away. He blamed his dark humor.

And it was only because he was looking so intently that he saw Bellamy shake his head, violently, as if trying to get cobwebs off his hair (Murphy had seen him do so after crawling around the older sections of the library, looking for a book on ancient battle strategies). Bellamy plucked a rose from the vase he’d been leaning on all night.

_What the hell? _Murphy thought, following Bellamy’s motions with confusion.

He elbowed Finn.

“What?” Finn said, annoyed.

Murphy wordlessly tilted his chin in Bellamy’s direction.

“What the hell?” Finn echoed his thoughts exactly as they watched Bellamy give the rose to a girl with chestnut hair.

The girl took the rose with some hesitation. She’d left her charge, Duke Roan, for a few moments to grab them drinks while the entire room lauded the birthday girl. She didn’t really see the point. The princess wasn’t _that_ impressive – short for her age, with locks of blonde hair that was fairly common around these parts. She’d expected more from the future queen of the greatest empire on the continent.

And then a boy stepped into her path. They stood in a secluded corner of the room, staring at one another, before the boy offered her what was in his hand. A rose.

When she took it, the boy smiled. He had a nice smile, she noted, complete with dimples. “Hey. I’m Bellamy,” he said smoothly. His words sounded rehearsed.

“Bellamy.” He had a nice name, too. She wasn’t usually in the business of flirting at the first meeting, but she supposed all rules had exemptions. She offered him the hand that wasn’t holding a rose. He took it. And kissed it. “Charmed. I’m Echo.”

Clarke finally – _finally _– managed to take a seat after suffering through the last of the well-wishers. Not that people telling her, “Happy birthday,” was something to _suffer _through, of course, but she was planning on at least eating something tonight. She sunk into the throne by her mother’s side with a satisfied sigh.

Her mother chuckled, leaning over to say, “It’s good to finally take the weight off your feet, isn’t it?”

“I wanted to at least save some energy for dancing,” Clarke replied, resisting the urge to reach under her dark-green skirts (heavy with jewels and gold stitching) to massage her feet. That would, she guessed, be truly improper.

A table was brought in in front of them, and servants began piling food for Clarke and her mother – _ube_ cakes, pitchers of dark wine, roasted turkey slices, glazed chicken, steaming rice, and fried pork belly. Clarke’s mouth watered from the smell of spices, but she managed to hold off reaching for whatever she could grab until the servants finished setting up.

The rest of the room was also sitting down to enjoy dinner. She spotted Raven and the others at the table near the dais that Clarke had delegated for them. Her previous birthdays had been too frenzied, and she’d lost track of all of them, on the rare occasions that Captain Kane allowed them to be off-duty for parties; this way, she could see her friends enjoying themselves front and center. It would be her last proper birthday as a princess; next year, she’d be celebrating as queen. At the very least, she might enjoy the beginning of her last year as a princess with people she actually cared about by her side. It had taken a lot of begging for Captain Kane to finally relent and let them off the hook for tonight.

But mostly it took Queen Abigail touching his hand and smiling and saying gently, “What’s one night, Marcus?”

The captain was more accommodating after that.

Monty and Jasper seemed to be scarfing down as many lumpia rolls as they could, with Harper and Fox cheering them on. Octavia was telling some story to Miller, Raven and Murphy, gesturing wildly and grinning – a ghost of her brother’s smile. Speaking of her brother…

He wasn’t at the table.

Clarke caught Finn's eye. The dark-haired boy winked, his mouth curling into a smirk. Clarke mouthed silently, _Bellamy?_

The teasing disappeared from Finn's face. He looked panicked. He shrugged helplessly before downing a cup of wine and reaching for another.

Clarke searched the room for Bellamy, her appetite forgotten. She’d barely seen him all week, what with the preparations for the ball as well as Wells’ arrival. She’d been planning on pulling him aside for an hour or so, so they could escape to the guardtower roof – a place that was wholly theirs and theirs alone – for a brief respite.

“Clarke.” Her mother was well into her dinner. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“I can’t find Bellamy,” Clarke grumbled. She knew princesses shouldn’t grumble. But she was suddenly in a grumbling mood.

“I’m sure he’s just mingling about.”

“Bellamy doesn’t _mingle_.”

“I’m sure he’ll find you later,” Queen Abigail said soothingly, reaching for a meringue tart. “For your dance, I mean.”

_Bellamy doesn’t dance, either_, Clarke almost said. But he’d promised. She’d made him promise her.

“It’s my last birthday before I become queen, who knows when I can find time to dance with you.” She’d pouted at him, half a year ago.

Bellamy had rolled his eyes. People didn’t normally roll their eyes at princesses, but Clarke had always found it charming that Bellamy sometimes forgot she was one. It was nice, pretending she was just a girl named Clarke, and he was just a boy named Bellamy. “You’ll have all the time in the world,” he’d said then. “We can dance all night if you ordered me to, although I’d consider it an abuse of your queenly power.”

“But I want to dance with you in front of everyone.”

Bellamy might’ve blushed at that. Or he might’ve laughed. It was so long ago. “What difference does it make if we dance alone, or if we dance in front of the whole kingdom?”

“A world of difference, Bellamy Blake,” she’d said, grinning at him. “And, besides, in two years, you wouldn’t be dancing with a princess. You’d be dancing with a queen.”

She remembered him looking sad then. But she couldn’t remember why, or if she’d even asked why.

Clarke forced herself to eat something, but even the _ube_ cake tasted bitter. After an hour of so of her pushing food around her plate and feeling inexplicably miserable, a shadow slanted over the table. She looked up, Bellamy’s name already on her lips, but it was Wells standing by her.

He offered her his hand. “May I have the honor of being your first dance tonight, Your Highness?”

Clarke smiled, and slipped her hand into Wells’. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her gloves. He helped her out of her throne, and they made their way down the dais. A few people had already started dancing to the soft melody from the string quartet, but they stopped to bow as Clarke took to the floor. Clarke waved them off, and turned her attention towards Wells.

Her free hand went to Wells’ shoulder, and his went to her hip; she still remembered learning the steps with him when they were younger, before her father’s death.

They swayed slowly to the song, Clarke’s green skirts whispering about their legs. The chandeliers blazed overhead, casting everything in a dreamlike golden light. With the scent of fresh roses and the sighing of the instruments, it was as if Clarke had stepped into another world, a world where things like war and poverty and sadness didn’t exist.

“So,” said Wells after a beat of silence, “has anyone caught your eye yet?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, with all the eligible lords and ladies of the realm under one roof, you wouldn’t want for a choice of suitor.” Wells shrugged, leading Clarke into a spin before pulling her back in. “It would be a shame to let the chance pass.”

Clarke snorted. “Wells, when I asked you to be my councilor, I really didn’t want you to start _tonight._ Please… just be my friend.” She sighed. “Gods know I need one right now.”

Wells crooked an eyebrow at her. “I wouldn’t peg you for a lonely girl, Clarke. After all, you have your posse of wayward guards-in-training over there.” He spun them around so they could look at Raven and the others.

Clarke choked back a laugh when she found that Jasper was – unsurprisingly – choking on a lumpia roll. Monty was pounding on Jasper’s back, but he was guffawing with every thump of his fist. Miller was dutifully clearing every cup of liquid away from Jasper’s reach. The lumpia roll finally dislodged from Jasper’s throat, straight into Fox’s plate of cake. Jasper began choking again – this time, by Fox’s hands. Octavia was giggling, almost falling out of her seat. Nobody seemed to care about the looks they were attracting from neighboring tables.

“They are a bit… irregular for a Queen’s Guard, aren’t they?” Clarke leaned her head against Wells’ shoulder and looked on as the Queen’s Guard table delved into chaos. She could already imagine the berating they’d get from Captain Kane later, but that seemed to be as far from their minds now as the threat of Sanctum at their borders. _Good. We all need a distraction_. “But they’re mine.”

“Even Murphy?” He seemed skeptical, still.

But Murphy was laughing harder than any of them.

“Even Murphy,” said Clarke resolutely. “They _are_ my friends, but I fear that that will change in a year. I’ll be queen, and they’ll be my Queen’s Guard, and what if that means that’s all they’ll be? What if… What if they can only be friends with a princess, not a queen?”

Wells drew back to look her in the eyes. “Queen Abigail has friends.”

Clarke sighed. “Only a handful she can trust. Mother has councilors and advisors and political contacts. That hardly constitutes as friendship.” At his scandalized look, she hurried to add, “But you’re different – because we were friends first, before we had politics to think about. Which is partly why I really don’t want to discuss anything political tonight with you.”

“Your wish is my command.” Wells' smile was short-lived. “But I sense a deeper turmoil. It isn’t just the Queen’s Guard you’re worried about losing, is it?”

Clarke tightened her grip on Wells' shoulder. “You can tell?”

“Of course I can tell, because you’ve been carefully avoiding saying his name even though you couldn’t get the syllables out fast enough just this afternoon.” Wells leaned his head towards her. “So, tell me, what did Bellamy Blake do?”

“It’s what he _didn’t_ do,” Clarke said heatedly. “I can’t find him! It’s my birthday, my last birthday before I’m to be saddled with a crown and a throne, and my best friend _isn’t here_.”

Wells frowned. “What do you mean? He’s right there.” And he spun her around again, just in time to see Bellamy Blake dip his head to kiss a girl in the shadows.

Echo’s lips tasted like wine.

Bellamy wondered if he could get drunk just by kissing her.

Raven looked away from Jasper long enough to see the princess stop dead in her tracks in the middle of the ballroom. She’d been dancing with that Jaha boy that came in earlier today, but she wasn’t dancing anymore. She was staring at something past the crowd, at _someone_ – or two someones – in the corner…

“Gods above,” Raven cursed, shaking Harper’s shoulder to get her attention. “Bellamy’s—”

Oh, and that look on the princess’ face.

Raven didn’t know what made her feel more wretched to watch – the way Bellamy clutched at the girl as if she was his lifeline, or the way the princess’ face looked as if she was drowning.

“Well, what did I tell you?” Murphy said smugly as they made their way back to their quarters. “Told you Blake was a player. Now pay up.”

Raven rolled her eyes and fished out a gold coin from her pocket. “He’s a _coward_, you mean,” she grumbled, handing the coin to Murphy.

Octavia, slumped asleep in Miller’s arms, stirred but didn’t wake. The ball had gone on longer than they expected, and Octavia had fallen asleep at the table after dancing for three straight hours. Except for her first dance with Wells Jaha, the princess hadn’t danced at all.

Murphy flipped the coin into the air and caught it effortlessly. “Whatever he is, he just settled this bet.”

Harper hummed. She had Monty and Jasper’s arms over her shoulders; they’d had too much to drink and were now swaying precariously, but Harper didn’t let them fall. “I wonder who that girl was.”

Murphy said, “Someone extraordinary, I reckon, if she got Blake to finally cave.”

“Where _is_ Bellamy, anyway?” Fox looked around the darkened hallway as if Bellamy was going to pop out of shadows to join them.

“Oh.” Murphy smirked, thinking about the way Bellamy led that girl discreetly out of the ballroom around midnight. “I think I have some ideas. Raven, I think Octavia should sleep in your room tonight.”

Raven groaned. On a totally unrelated note, Jasper broke away from Harper to vomit into the nearest potted plant.

Her eighteenth birthday will be better. Her eighteenth birthday will be better. Her eighteenth birthday—

It was Clarke’s only prayer that night.

It would go unanswered.

Queen Abigail Griffin was tired.

Long after the last of the guests had left, and after the rest of the servants had been dismissed, she sat on the throne in the ballroom, rereading a letter by the fading candlelight. The letter had been folded and unfolded so many times by anxious hands (mostly her own) that it was more wrinkle than paper. It had arrived just before the ball – Clarke’s ball. Her daughter’s _birthday_, and it would be marked by this… The words swam – and it took her a moment to realize it was because she was crying.

Marcus stood behind her. The rest of her Queen’s Guard had left for the night, but her captain stayed. Even if the world was falling apart, she could always trust Marcus to stay. And the world _was _falling apart.

She forced herself to reread the letter for the hundredth time, just to make sure she had not imagined its grim contents.

_My queen—_

_Sanctum has made its move. They have attacked the town of Tondisi. The villagers – civilians, all – have been executed, their homes pillaged. A child’s corpse was found next to a wall, where presumably his blood was used to write two words of warning: IT BEGINS._

_We shall wait for your orders on how to proceed, my queen, but time is of the essence._

_Your humble servant,_

_Lincoln kom Trikru_

It begins. Oh, cruel folk. To begin a war while the capital celebrated its princess.

Of course, this had been expected. All the councilors had told her it was only a matter of time before Sanctum launched its attack. They had been pushing for her to attack first, so Arkadia would not be taken by surprise. But still she’d hoped. She’d hoped all the skirmishes and the threats would amount to nothing. She'd put her faith in peace.

And now 300 of her people would pay the price for her naivete.

_Oh, Jacob… _She wished he was still alive, so she wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone.

A hand settled on her shoulder. She looked up, finding Marcus there, his eyes not reproachful, but full of worry. “My queen,” he said softly. “Should I call for a war council?”

Wordlessly, Abigail nodded. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. She’d held out tonight for Clarke’s sake, to preserve whatever bit of innocence her daughter still had left. But when tomorrow came, the kingdom would know of Sanctum’s attack. They would know the time of peace was over.

And Clarke Griffin, at seventeen years old, would step into a reign of war.

“She is much too young for this,” Abigail sobbed, crushing the paper in her hands.

“I know, my queen.” There was only sadness in Marcus’ voice. She wondered if he was thinking of his own children – the Queen’s Guard trainees that he’d practically raised. “I know.”

The roses were starting to decay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> All song lyrics taken from the Oh Hellos' album, Dear Wormwood. It's so good guys, give it a listen! It singlehandedly inspired this fic :0
> 
> this is my first bellarke fic, mostly driven by my anger over them sTILL NOT BEING CANON CMON JROTH CHOP CHOP. thanks for reading xoxo


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